


what we lived for

by hesperia



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-01
Updated: 2012-06-01
Packaged: 2017-11-06 13:48:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/419595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hesperia/pseuds/hesperia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>She knows she should go back to her tent, becaue her place is by her Liege Lord's side in battle, not at his bedside, but he has not always been her liege lord, he is still the boy she knew once at Winterfell. She still remembers how his father would laugh the loudest of all when she bested Theon or Robb in the yard. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	what we lived for

It starts the night after the battle of the Whispering Wood. Dacey had relieved herself in the thicket of saplings on the outskirts of camp, and as she passes by Robb Stark's tent she hears muffled voices, more specifically one muffled voice. She knows she should go back to her tent, becaue her place is by her Liege Lord's side in battle, not at his bedside, but he has not always been her liege lord, he is still the boy she knew once at Winterfell. She still remembers how his father would laugh the loudest of all when she bested Theon or Robb in the yard. 

And so it is for the boy she knows that she slips into his tent, sees him tossing and turning in his sleeping furs. His voice is low, incoherent mutterings but the tone of them is frantic, scared. She kneels by his furs, palming her hand over his shoulder as she shakes him softly, and she strokes his cheek like she has done a hundred times to Jorelle and Lyanna.

"You were dreaming," she says quietly, when Robb's eyes blink open in confusion. "It was just a dream." Her fingers brush along the curls at his hairline, and he sighs, his body relaxing under her palm still curved over his shoulder. 

"It was so real," Robb says, and he looks so much like the boy he truly is. "I don't want to close my eyes for fear of seeing it again."

Dacey nods, she does not have to ask to know what he is speaking of, she has had those dreams herself, both waking and asleep. The worst part of battle is never the act of violence itself, but the gruesome reality that haunts you. 

"Perhaps some wine?" Dacey asks, moving to stand, but Robb's hand is holding her hand against his chest, and Dacey can feel the steady thump-thump of his heartbeat beneath her palm. 

"Just stay with me?" he asks. "Please?" 

"I'll stay until you fall asleep." Dacey kneels back down, her hair moving back to his hair. Robb shuffles over in his bed, making room so that Dacey can slip in next to him. It would be unseemly, if anyone should catch them, but the earnestness in Robb's face, and the memory of how tormented he'd looked while asleep, wins over propriety. 

The furs are warm from his body, and the feather mattress beneath her is softer than her own straw tick, Dacey wonders how horrible Robb's dreams must be if he cannot fall asleep even in a bed as comfortable as this. 

"You won't...tell anyone of this, will you?" Robb asks, as they lie on their sides, facing one another. 

"Of course not, Lord Robb," Dacey says, her fingers still weaving through his hair, through the soft russet curls. "You have my word." 

He holds her hand close to his chest, his eyes drooping closed though he struggles to keep them open. "Could you call me Robb? Just now, while we're...alone?" 

"Of course, and...you can call me Dacey." 

"Dacey." He says her name under his breath, as if to memorize it, his eyes drifting closed. 

She stays longer than she should, longer than she means to; its warm under Robb's furs, can feel the heat from his body emnating to hers, despite the fact that they do not touch. It is almost morning when she extracts herself out of his bed, slipping from the tent before anyone can notice. 

Later she sees him laughing with Theon and Smalljon Umber, his eyes are bright, his smile wide, and for the first time in a long time, Dacey realizes how rested he looks. When he catches her gaze, Dacey feels her chest tighten, his gaze so thankful that Dacey has to avert her eyes, but the smile stays on her lips for hours after. 

+

There is a profound sense of loss that settles over the camp when the news arrives of Ned Stark's execution. The men sit in small groups, staring into their fires, drinking quietly and barely exchanging words, save for the curses on the Lannisters, and on King Joffrey. Dacey has never come to loathe the sound of ravens quite so fiercely as she has in the last day.

She is sitting next to Torrhen Karstark when she watches Lady Catelyn leave her son's tent. Torrhen does not look up when Dacey stands and she slips quietly through the dark camp to Robb's tent. 

He is standing at the table, his mouth drawn straight, still wearing his armor as he stares at the maps. He smacks the pieces off the table and only then does he notice Dacey standing just in front of the flaps of his tent. His shoulders sag then, and Dacey goes to him, wordlessly. 

She undoes the ties and belts of his armor, lifting it off him, the mail as well. He looks smaller without the armor, not shorter for he's grown so much these last few months that he is the same height as her now, but he's leaner, more muscle where there was once only the idea of them. 

"Sit," she says, and he lets himself fall into the chair behind him. There is still mud on his face, or someone else's blood, and Dacey wipes his face with the cloth from the basin. She holds his chin in her hand, wiping the dirt and grime from his skin. 

"You should sleep," she says, when she's scrubbed his face and neck clean. "Perhaps a draft with a drop of night shade from the maester?"

"No." 

"What would you have me do, Robb? Tell me and I will do it for you." Dacey strokes his cheek, trying to find a spark of life in his eyes. 

"I would have you stay." 

He does not protest when she leads him to bed, only shrugs his shirt over his head and crawls into the furs, curling his body around Dacey's as she settles down next to him. His face is already wet when he presses it against the curve of her neck, his body shaking as he cries. 

She does not hush him, but strokes a hand along his back, the other curled under him, her fingers playing in the soft short curls at the neck of his neck. Tomorrow she will stand with her mother, with the rest of his father's bannermen, his bannerman now, and the Greatjon will pledge his fealty to the King in the North, but for now she will just hold him in her arms, press her mouth to the top of his head, and comfort the boy who was once Robb Stark.


End file.
